Bobby was tense the moment the Impala pulled up.

He didn’t need this.

Especially not today.

But of course, the Winchester boys strolled in like they owned the place—Dean smirking, Sam looking concerned as always.

“We’ve got a problem,” Sam said, holding up a worn notebook. “And it’s not in anything we’ve got.”

Dean dropped onto Bobby’s couch. “Figured you’d miss us anyway.”

“I’ve got other things going on,” Bobby muttered, clearing papers off the table—shoving some aside a little too quickly.

Sam clocked it. “You have company?”

Bobby didn’t answer. Just grunted and turned toward the kitchen.

Dean grinned. “Damn. You do have company. Bobby, is she cute?”

“Don’t start.”

Then—the sound of tires on gravel. A door slamming. Light footsteps.

Bobby froze.

From outside: “Pop? I got the snacks—and yes, I did get the spicy jerky. Don’t act surprised.”

The screen door creaked open.

And then you stepped inside—sunlight behind you, paper bag tucked in your arm, the scent of motor oil and heat still clinging to your skin.

You stopped.

They turned.

And that’s when you saw him.

The taller one. Flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves. Broad shoulders. Warm eyes that looked like they’d seen more than you could ever imagine. Messy hair that somehow worked. And something… quiet in the way he looked at you. Like you’d interrupted a storm inside him.

Your lips parted slightly. Words gone.

Dean said something—probably a joke. You didn’t even hear it.

All you could do was stare at him.

Sam stared back.

Like he was trying to place you. Like something clicked, but didn’t.

“Who is she?” he asked quietly, glancing at Bobby but not looking away from you.

You blinked. “Who are you?”

“She’s my daughter,” Bobby said flatly.

Sam’s brows lifted, stunned. “You’ve got a daughter?”

Dean let out a low whistle somewhere in the background, but your eyes hadn’t left Sam’s face. The air felt heavier suddenly.